Waking up to the grumble of my stomach, hungry for that sweet feeling of victory… Oh wait, no…how could I forget, alcohol does cause the incurable disease, ‘un hangover’, which left me crippled for the preceding hours up until the mighty 3s took on the lowly St Ives.

The team were in good spirits, having comfortably demolished St Ives the last time we visited. From the first whistle South were all over the opposition like Prince Harry over a sabbatical to Canada. My hangover, however, clouded my judgement on my hockey ability - as per usual - leading to some more than questionable passes, which kept us on our toes. An early break lead to the indefatigable Johnny screaming through past the keeper to surely open the scoring… Alas no. The post became one defiant enemy for South on a day where we needed luck on our side.

As the half progressed my hangover went from bad to worse, with my hockey ability becoming yet more questionable. Jimmy, the knight in shining armour of our tale, managed to score a perfectly executed goal, I’d love to tell you more about this goal but my head was not in a good way by this point. This can only be further evidenced by St Ives’s fortunate first goal… I was minding my own business in our D before suddenly remembering George doesn’t shut his legs (much like a girl I still dream I run into). Sadly my delay resulted in an easy tap-in for St Ives to level the scores before a well-needed sweet binge at half time.

The second half started similar to the first. ‘Why do I drink on Fridays?’ ‘Why do I drink so much that I can’t play properly?’ ‘How is fresh-faced Pete hiding his hangover better than me?’ were just some of my questions as I once more misplaced an easy pass. South yet again dominated possession and were camped in the opposition half, winning more shorts than Trump will get votes to keep him in power (hopefully). Sadly, however, as all sad stories go our heroes have to fall. First to do so was Adam. A bold decision to step ahead of their striker to intercept was applauded until he forgot the ball, leaving their striker clean through against George, who would surely stop any easy strike straight at him. Oh wait, don’t be silly; a firm strike snuck through George’s legs. Classic 3s…

We retaliated valiantly, earning more short corners than drinks I had consumed the night before, but to no avail. We simply could not score, resulting in a more than frustrating loss.

To lighten my foul mood, upon my return home I discovered my well thought out idea to cook food had not gone exactly to plan, resulting in some less-than-Michelin-star-quality fish and chips…

Moral of the story: don’t go out on Fridays by mistake!